


Synthetic IV: WATER

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Brothers, Kink, M/M, Past Abuse, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: so, they both have needs. But they are both the product of their pasts... no one more than Dean. oh, and there's sex.





	

Synthetic IV: Water  
Kitty Fisher

 

There’s a guy pissing into a urinal, the sound of water hitting ceramic loud even over the muffled din of Aerosmith that’s bleeding through the walls. Tall, broad and about fifty pounds overweight, the man turns as Dean walks in, and it feels like he’s being checked out – though it’s more likely to be for weapons as for his ass . Dean just nods peaceably (without making eye contact – hell, he’s not dumb) and strolls up to the far end of the room, past the line of sinks to the farthest urinal. There he falters. He can’t unzip. Well, he could, but that might give the guy the wrong idea and man, that fifty pounds might be muscle and Dean’s not looking to defend his virtue, not tonight. Tonight he’s giving it away.

Which, in the context of not looking horny, is so not the best thought. 

Then there’s the sound of a zipper pulling up and, after a moment, the door slams shut, and Dean just breathes out a breath he’s apparently sucked in and then forgotten.

Yeah, totally cool. Not nervous at all. No way. He bites his lip and aims for Zen. Finds something approaching a Southern Baptist revival. Because, just, _Sam_ …

Turning, he looks around, not impressed by the sludge-green tiles that coat the floor and walls, half of them crazed and cracked, some missing completely. He supposes that it all must get cleaned. Maybe. Once a year, for Christmas maybe. There’s four stalls, and one by one, he pushes the doors open, checks each one out. No surprises. Just the usual, not that he was expecting anything else and just standing still is way too hard, but that’s what he should be doing. 

Nervous as a kid, he stands in the middle of the room. There’s a long, fly-blown mirror over the urinals and, caught by the image, he looks back at his own reflection. Seeing himself as someone else; strange, hot-eyed and slightly flushed. The guy in the mirror looks on edge. Dean blinks, bites down again, watches as the image shifts, as his lower lip swells, red and full.

He knows he’s not cute. Hell, he knows he’s smooth and sure, that he can charm pussy into his lap – or anywhere else – but he’s not what he wants to be, and he wonders what Sam sees in him. What his father saw. And that’s a jolt he sees reflected, because he can fuck every woman in the world, and there’ll still be those dark eyes looking at him, cold and hard and critical.

Which is all way too much introspection. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs to loosen his shoulders. There’s now to focus on without thinking back to then. And Sam. Yeah. _Again_. Man, that one word was enough to –

He jerks as the door opens. Sam, bottle in hand, walks in, all rangy body and eyes so intense Dean almost falls to his knees, but shit, he’s not been told to, and he knows that whatever Sam may or may not have known before about all this, he’s picked up the control thing real fast. So Dean stands there, and waits. And watches the wide mouth tilt into a smile, just before Sam lifts his arm and takes a sip of beer.

The bottle rim lingers against his mouth, and Sam tongues it once before nodding his head. “Get in a stall.”

Oh, yeah. Right. Dean drags his eyes away from Sam’s mouth. “Yes, sir.” Ignoring the shift of blood from his head, he turns and picks one at random, the furthest to the left, tucked against the wall. He walks in on legs he can hardly feel, listens as boots softly pick their way over to him and Sam’s there, taking up the available space as he shuts the door and snaps the bolt into place.

“I was going to wait until we got home. Well, guess I’m not near as patient as I thought.” Resting his bottle on the tank, Sam steps closer, looking down, the skin around his eyes tight as his eyes slightly narrow. “You’ve been driving me crazy. Crazy enough that I’m not sleeping and not eating when you’re opposite me at the table and all I can see is your mouth and – you know, you really do never ever just stop talking. If this is how to shut you up, well,” and he smiles again, slow and wicked, “that’s just an added bonus.”

Another step and Dean’s back against the wall, pressed tight to cold tile, with one of Sam’s hands against his shoulder, holding him in place. “Wha –”

“Shut up. You can nod or shake your head, that’s it. I want some secrets, Dean. What gets you off – is it just the kick of doing something on command? Hell, sure, I can see how you like it, how it makes your dick hard. But what else?”

A thigh rams between his legs and Dean whimpers. Actually whimpers. And he thinks, but only just - because thinking’s way too overrated a pastime - that he might come before Sam’s done anything, touched anything. Made him do anything.

Which all by itself is enough to make him shudder, once, convulsively.

“Yeah. Just like that…” Sam leans in, his lips brushing against Dean’s cheek. “You’re such a freak, Dean. Freak in every way, and shit, I love you so damn much. All of you. All the darkness, all the weird stuff that you hide away under being Mr Slick.”

“Sam…”

“Oh, no talking, Dean. What do I do now, punish you for that?” He leans back, stares hard into Dean’s eyes and Dean’s panting for breath, half blind with silence, half wanting to just fall to his knees and sob in thanks.

“Maybe. But later.” And Sam kisses him, long and slow, mouth to mouth like giving life. Dean moans, hips canting, tilting like he’s a mare begging to be covered. Not that he cares. This is beyond shame, way beyond it, past it and into the distance. No shame. He’s whatever Sam wants him to be. That’s it. All of it. All of him.

Shifting back, Sam turns him around. Hands on his shoulders, pulling and pushing until Dean’s facing the wall, cheek pressed to crumbling, cracking tiles that are just clean enough to reflect the shadowy shape of Sam as he leans in, his length tight to Dean, hands linked with Dean’s, pulling them up so they’re stretched wide, both of them crucified against the wall, like angels in flight.

Sam’s hips slam forward and Dean bites down on a cry. But his brother’s already stopped moving, and it takes a moment for Dean to realize there’s someone else in the room. Booted feet shuffling. A cough that reverberates, then the wet sound of pissing. 

A breath scuds past his ear. Then again. Sam, blowing gently against his ear, ruffling the short hairs on the back of his neck like the biggest tease in the history of fucking. A tongue follows. Gentle and sweet, flicking lightly, up through the whorls of cartilage and skin, waking nerves he’d no idea existed, leaving him quivering, the heat of Sam’s body like a furnace behind him. 

When the teeth bite, he can’t quite trap the sound that rips from his throat. A hand slaps over his mouth, and they’re both listening, so still in expectancy and apprehension. Nothing happens for what feels like a lifetime, until, finally, the man moves again, coughs, and the door opens, slams shut.

“Ah, fuck…” 

Sam almost laughs, but Dean can feel how hard he is, and adrenaline has them both gripped tight and right now he’s up for anything, anything at all, his entire being just riffing on the submission, on the urge to just lick Sam’s boots and beg. Punishment, pain, humiliation – and he’s answering Sam’s question in his head, and somehow he knows that Sam understands, that he doesn’t really need words to spell it out, for Sam shifts away, taking a pace back.

“Turn around and get on your knees.”

Once, he had this down. He had it with grace and elegance and man, he was such a good _boy_. Right now? Training might as well have never happened, because he almost trips on his own feet, falling to the floor, knees slamming into filthy tiles with a crack, as he stares at Sam’s boots and clasps his hands behind his back, panting, the silver glint of the amulet, swinging forward from around his neck, a faint distraction on the edge of his vision.

Sam strokes a hand down his own side, fingers lingering near his groin. “So, Dean, you experienced at this?”

Dean blinks, wondering if somehow it’s a trick question. But… In the end he nods, once. Experienced? _Oh, Sammy, I’ll make your brain explode…_

“See, I can never get girls to take me deep enough, take it hard enough, something to do with the shape, or maybe just the girls, who knows. But you – can you do it, all the way, boy?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean whispers the words, his mouth already filling with saliva, the front of his jeans damp with precum as Sam unzips, pulls his jeans and boxers down and just leans back against the wall, cock spearing up past the tail of his shirt as he pulls it to one side.

“Show me.”

A hundred times he’s done this; in alleyways, in back-rooms, in his father’s bedroom, with carpet burn on his skin and with fear only just overridden by need. But this is something else. Something he’s not afraid of – same surname, different face. Which almost makes him smile, but he can’t lose it now, not with the sweet thrill of pleasure that’s running fast through his veins, all of it threaded through with overwhelming need and an anticipation that’s so sharp it hurts, but has nothing at all to do with fear.

Shuffling forward on his knees, feeling tile ridges digging into his kneecaps, his hands slippery with sweat where they’re clasped, fist wrapped in fist behind his back, he inhales his brother’s scent, the musk and soapy sweat of skin, and closes his eyes. Breathing in, nose running gently down the length of Sam’s shaft, he buries his face in the soft hairs that grow thick and lush at Sam’s groin. When he feels the heavy balls tighten against his chin, he smiles. Oh, yeah, Sam. Wait, just wait, it’ll be so good…

Mouth opening slowly, he licks. Deep into the softness of sac and the springy resistance of balls, licking with his tongue flat and wide before taking one in his mouth, sucking it until Sam gasps. A hand rests on his hair, the touch light, but stroking back and forth, grounding him sweetly. Dean swallows, sucks again, the skin in his mouth crawling, wrinkling tight and he hears a hiss of warning and the outer door slams open.

Fuck. But adrenaline wins, and he opens his mouth and licks upwards, daring noise and discovery, but so getting off on the danger, on the quiver he feels resonate through Sam’s long, lean muscles. He doesn’t even tease this time, just opens his eyes, glancing up to see Sam watching him, lower lip tight between his teeth, something like pain - but more like fire - in his eyes.

Dean settles down, spreading his thighs – and takes the wet cock-head into his mouth. It fills him, tucks behind his teeth. Soft skin over hard flesh, nudging into his palate and deeper as he pushes forward and the head finally hits resistance. He can imagine girls – with their narrow throats trying this, panicking, going back to lick and suck and jerking until Sam comes. Dean straightens his torso and just _relaxes_ , almost choking himself until his body gives in and with a grunt he pushes hard, forcing himself to open, forcing this one thing that Sam wants, that he’s asked for.

The hand resting on his head presses down, jerking once when Dean’s mouth suddenly slides all the way down, and his nose is pressed into the tightness of flat, taut belly.

He holds there. Looks up. He can’t keep it up for long, but that look, _that_ one, with Sam shaking, his eyes wide and blazing with what can only be ownership. Yes… Dean slides back and heaves in a breath.

The door slams again, but, hell, he’s too far gone. All the way, easy this time, lips spasming around the thick shaft, his own cock jerking like something possessed, each pulse in time with the blood pounding in his head, with the heartbeat that’s deafening him to everything but Sam’s breathing and Sam’s need as the hand on his head suddenly presses down. And Sam gives up on asking and demands.

_Yes_ , this is what Dean wants, this perfect moment when he’s offering and offered, when he’s giving and yet being forced to give more.

Stilled by a touch, he waits. A finger traces his face, forehead, eyelids, down the line of his nose to the stretched O of his mouth. It pushes past Dean’s lip, sliding along the wet heat of his own shaft, so that Dean feels his mouth open just that little bit more, feels the finger rub along his teeth and the inside of his cheek, curling as another finger slides in, and for a moment Sam’s just stroking himself in Dean’s mouth, and Dean almost chokes on a groan, as he’s so close to coming right now, this second –

But the hand slips away, slaps his cheek in light reprimand. “Don’t.”

And he doesn’t. Somehow. Not even when he’s offering it all up, when he’s nothing but a hole for Sam to fuck in long, slow thrusts that angle down, carefully choking him, each time more viciously perfect than the last. With a shudder he gives up every semblance of control, his will stripped away by the burning heat in his brother’s eyes. When Sam comes, Dean’s forced down, held there, while Sam gasps silently, bent over as he’s racked by the rigors of an orgasm that seems to be ripping him inside out, until, finally done, he pushes Dean away.

Dean falls sideways, fighting for breath, fighting his body so that he won’t heave all over the floor, won’t come, and either is possible, probable, until he finds some discipline from somewhere and it’s all okay. Slowly, heart beating so hard he can feel it in his chest, Dean shifts and shuffles himself back onto his knees, hands moving to rest behind his back. A glance up, with permission granted, and he kisses Sam’s cock. Just once, before Sam’s fingers trace over his mouth and Sam’s mouth just whispers, “Boy.”

And that’s enough, he’s calm, eased by a single word and a light, gentle touch. He stays quite still while Sam tucks himself away, zips up, shrugs his shirt back into place. 

“Stand up.”

Man, that’s tougher. He does it though. Awkward, graceless until, pulled forward, he falls into Sam’s body and just leans there, held in long arms while the world spins on alone.

 

*

Sam leaves first. Dean, still hard but beyond really thinking about it, waits for a minute, counting it off second by second, because it’s an order, and he knows about obedience. Once again, waiting, he stares at himself in the mirror, and this time he sees someone different, someone pale, with red, raw lips and dark eyes so blown they seem vast, endlessly deep. He blinks, startled. Because now he can see what Sam sees. What in turn his dad had seen. And he nods, understanding himself quite clearly, perhaps for the first time.

The Impala’s in the parking lot. He walks slowly, the thrumming intensity of arousal a punishment all its own, and he heads for the car, and his brother, and he’s so high that he’s hit the gravel before he even feels the punch that knocks him down.


End file.
